Puppy Love
by Doktor Al Meringue
Summary: Drabble. For my beloved SilverEnderwolf HAPPY BIRTHDAY THIS MESSAGE IS IMPORTANT BECAUSE CAPS LOCK


_How could I profess my interest in you? Let me start..._

No, no. That's silly. Who actually starts a letter like that?

The paper's wadded up and thrown into the wastebasket already overflowing with my _other_ silly mistakes. I've been at this for - goodness, the sun has already disappeared - a good five hours, and the only thing I can think of is him. He installs upon me a feeling of "uneasiness"; like my stomach's been blown to bits and the remains dangle listlessly in my cavernous abdomen. It's something I honestly can't explain. The brain is a cruel mistress, her own agenda much different from the heart which ultimately results in a cataclysmic war between the two-

Well. That's if you even subscribe to such silly beliefs about the physiological effects that heartbreak can have. Which I don't, of course.

I'm not heartbroken.

Let me start again.

_Sergei, you are a very brave man, willing to risk it all for our shared interest in one another. If fate didn't behave as it did, then, perhaps... a more permanent union might be possible. Maybe..._

I suddenly stop. I'm not a speculative person. I don't "hope" or "wish", I see things as they are and if they happen to be a problem, I fix them. Bullet holes don't leave much to the imagination.

_... there is a chance, a small one, that someday we could be..._

I know what I want to write next. Do I really mean it? I know I do.

Regardless, I tear the paper away from the desk. My hand is poised to crumple it up - but I can't bring myself to throw it away. These few words are everything I feel, and I'm not ready to get rid of them just yet. I whip my head around the room, looking for something, anything to keep the note in... ha, there!

In the corner of my "office" there stands a large bookshelf, filled to the brim with large, cumbersome textbooks. Optional reading should I ever want to "inspire" myself and get a little decoration on my lapel. Such a petty reason.

I pick the newest - and by far the **heaviest** - piece of text, a combination of human anatomy and medical journals from the greatest minds of medicine. No one would voluntarily read the thing. I stuff the letter somewhere between the "anatomy of the human heart" entries (much to my chagrin, but there's no leeway to be choosy about it) and let it drift away from my mind. It wouldn't serve any good to fret about it any further.

I attempt to justify not sending the letter by convincing myself that the half-witted leader of BLU would most certainly confiscate my letter and read it before it was sent out. I'm sure he would become especially suspicious of the "To: RED" heading that would be required on the letterhead.

I try to convince myself (as I take my seat again) that any sort of interest in the opposing team would be bad for not only our mission but my very _life_, but to no avail. The war within my body mimics that which takes place on the field, only one hits much closer to home. I want to admit that my "interest" is actually love, but my brain knows that at nineteen I'm much to young to know any sort of business about that. A medic's love should be for hexachlorapene and iodine, not other men.

I briefly wonder what my supervisors might think of such a development if I were to tell them my thoughts. Helen, the young, attractive vixen that she is, would most certainly dishonorably discharge me. I can't have that; this war is basically my life now. I don't know what else I'd be good at. Digging out shrapnel from wounds and stitching arms back on are pretty specific abilities that I'm not certain would transfer into other job fields.

... kindness makes you think differently in war, especially when it comes from your enemy. Even if he were to become the cold-blooded Russian that I once perceived that he was, I feel that I would still remain unhealthily attached to him. Would a relationship be possible in such close quarters? A secret one, at that? I'm certain he wouldn't be opposed to it, however...

I slightly lift my head as I hear the trumpet calls break through the silence of the cold night, signifying the hour of sleep. Shortly thereafter comes the muffled barking of Jane, reinforcing the power of the horn and imposing empty threats should the company not obey these orders.

Maybe... I'll sleep on it.


End file.
